


Not An Optimal World Saving Solution

by gala_apples



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Blood Poisoning, Drug Addiction, M/M, Medication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-10 01:49:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is him fiending, isn't it?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not An Optimal World Saving Solution

**Author's Note:**

> The drug is called clarithromycin, and the side effects are real. I was never an addict, but when this happened to me it made me fiend, and it would be much worse for someone that used to be an addict.

Frank isn’t surprised Bob is the first one to comment on it. Not because he's the first one to notice it, they've all seen this before, they’d have to be fucking blind to not see it. He's just the least afraid to bring it up. They've done this before, and if not commenting gives them a few days of calm before the storm Frank will take it, and it doesn't look like Mikey or Ray feel differently.

"What the fuck is he doing?"

Ray and Mikey are in their bunks, which leaves Frank as the sole person available for wading into this crapfield. He really fucking doesn't want to do this.

"Dunno." It's not a lie. If he doesn't look up, he doesn't know exactly what Gerard is doing.

Bob's heel pushes sharply into Frank's thigh, leg rapidly jiggling with nerves. "Frank?"

It's a lie. "He's fine." It's a lie it's a lie it's a lie. But Frank can't do this again, not yet.

*

Gerard's always fucked around with his fingers. He picks at his cuticles because the curve of oddly purple skin looks gross. He bites the nails to the quick, until he's chewing at more skin than nail, and it almost hurts to pick something up. He splits the layers of his nails because he can't stand to have them look cracked and weird. And if he's got a hangnail, he tears it away from his finger.

Sometimes it gets infected. His finger will start to swell a bit, be sensitive to touch. After a day, if he rips a bit more skin off he can squeeze out clear, occasionally orange pus. Once it's just blood he's squeezing he knows it'll be fine.

But this time it had stayed swollen with pus, no matter how much he tried to drain it. He had held out his hand and asked if his palm looked red to anyone else. Mikey didn't answer, Frank just asked what he'd been drawing with. Gerard knew from experience that only stamped ink could make his skin look like that. Paint would look more caked, marker would be brighter. Which Gerard had explained, protesting that he hadn't used ink that day.

Bob's suggestion was to go to the med station the next time they stopped. So he did, because his entire fucking hand was starting to feel sensitive. It was creepy, even if he was placebo effecting himself into thinking it.

She'd looked at it for about a second before diagnosing him. The problem was blood poisoning, or ascending lymphangitis, which sounded much cooler and scarier than infected hangnail. He'd gotten twice a day antibiotics. Gerard wasn't good with schedules, but if he stopped taking them then the infection would come back and a quick Google proved that was a bad idea. Making sure he was available at noon and midnight was better than having his hand amputated.

*

Bob looks at Gerard again. He’s curled up in the corner, legs tucked under him. He looks spaced out, not paying attention to anything. Bob could almost say he was asleep, if it wasn’t for the frantic movement of his hands. They’re curled into claws, fingernails bitten and ragged as always. Gerard is dragging them up and down his thighs, a rhythmic movement.

Bob prods Frank with his foot yet again. Frank jerks his body away from Bob and squishes into the arm of the chair as much as he can.

The room is nearly quiet, which is eerie enough. It’s never fucking quiet on a tourbus, not even in the middle of the night. It’s worse that the only sound is the scrape of fingernails against denim. Gerard’s jeans are turning grey where his fingers have been scratching for hours.

“That’s him fiending, isn’t it?” he asks in a low voice. He’s sure, but he’s not positive. By the time he was following them through Europe, Gerard was mostly out of experimenting and just needing more and more liquor.

“I need to piss,” Frank announces, jolting to his feet. It’s enough of an answer for Bob.

*

Side effects: diarrhea, nausea, vomiting, stomach upset, changes in taste, headache. As medications go they’re standard, possibilities for pretty much every pill aside from vitamins. The 'tell your doctor if you have these' were a bit more frightening, hearing loss, mood changes, dizziness, fainting irregular heartbeat dark urine, yellowing of eyes or skin. Still, they did say rare in the medical information pamphlet.

It’s two pills in when they start. One in the afternoon, with a full stomach to hopefully prevent the stomach effects, it starts. His mouth tastes rank, and he scrolls through the last few days in his head to try and remember the last time he brushed his teeth. But it doesn’t taste like layers of food and morning breath. It’s different. More chemical. He grabs one of Frank’s expensive vegan toffee bits and tries to ignore it.

He’s in the middle of The Ghost Of You when it hits him. He clenches to the microphone for all it’s worth, and tries to tell himself he’s wrong. He’s hallucinating it, he’s imagining it. A swig of water after the song isn’t flavoured enough to take away the taste. He does his best to play the rest of the concert without shaking.

*

He hates this. Not just for how much Gerard is suffering, although God knows that bothers him to no end. He’s never really been able to handle his brother’s bouts of misery.

What really gets him is how the effect is passed along. It’s more than obvious Gerard really wants drugs right now. What he’s trying to avoid by staying in his bunk is showing how much he wants them too. It had seemed only right, only fair, that when Gerard quit, everyone quit with him. The band probably couldn’t have gone on if they hadn’t, look at what happened to Bert.

But the thing is, Mikey hadn’t had a problem with it. He knew when to stop, and when to enjoy the fuck out of a pill or powder. If it hadn’t been for Gerard, he would have had years left on his intoxicants checklist.

So when Gerard is sketching out, scraping at his legs because that’s what he always did, all Mikey can think of how much of a fucking rush it had all been. He wants those jitters, he wants his body to feel twenty degrees hotter and a hundred pounds lighter. He _wants_ , and he doesn’t _care_ that Gerard can’t have. And he hates it.

*

It’s three days in when Gerard begins to crack. It’s subtle, at first. He just stops eating, stops drinking more than water. After the first show he’d spent nearly fifty dollars on gum at the 7-11 nearest the venue. He hadn’t even sent Worm or a tech for it, he’d risked recognition to buy out the rack of chewing gum. After his seventh pill he tosses the bag of different brands and flavours onto Mikey’s bed.

He doesn’t want to alter the taste in his mouth anymore. Everything tastes like cocaine, and it’s fucking wonderful. It’s like sliding back through time. His tongue glides over his upper gums to find the last traces of any of the powder -numbies were never his favourite, but there’s no sense in wasting- and of course he doesn’t find anything. But it doesn’t stop him from checking minutes later.

It’s on the fifth day that it really starts to get to him. He’s got the taste, the liquid slide of coke down his nose into his throat. But he doesn’t have anything else. He doesn’t have the rapid heartbeat, the fluttering skin, the cool numbness. He doesn’t have the liquor that turns the experience into something else. He doesn’t have the never ending sex. He doesn’t have the _excitement_. Gerard just has the taste of memories in his mouth, and that’s not enough.

*

Ray's been sitting for the last hour, trying to think. He's got his laptop open. Normally he’d have a dozen sites lined up in a row, his all time record is twenty seven. Things aren’t normal. He's got two programs open, Garageband and Hotmail. Neither have gotten any attention.

The email is uncomposed. There isn’t even a recipient at the top because Ray always types that in last. He's got to write this. Brian's got to know. It shouldn't feel so much like betrayal. It shouldn't feel like tattling. There are a dozen reasons Brian needs to know and Ray's willing to bet he's the only one that’s even thought about informing Brian. Frank won’t, Bob won't know to, Mikey can't.

He clicks his cursor into the text field. His mouse scrolls roughly over rumpled blankets. It hovers there, blinking. He can't type anything. The moment he does, this is real, this will be a real problem. And the moment it is, he’ll always be the one that said something.

*

It's Ray that Gerard goes to. Back before, the first time, when it was all about distraction, sex had worked wonders. Maybe it wasn’t a sanctioned AA solution, but it worked. Ray never made him feel guilty for needing a safe alternative to Bert. A fuck without a bowl smoked after, a line and five shots before. Ray was better than a groupie, even if those came with less questions and more id-based release.

Gerard pulls back the curtain. Ray’s laptop has switched to his random arching lines screensaver, but he’s still hunched over it, his face is hidden by his mane of hair. He looks up at the rustle of fabric.

“Can I blow you or something? It’s just.” Ray’s eyes widen for a second before he recognises this. Of course he recognises this, Gerard’s well aware he’s not fooling anyone. Ray nods.

The laptop gets shoved to the corner, against the wall, and Gerard crawls onto the bed. Ray raises his hips so he can get his jeans down to his knees as Gerard curls into himself at the end of the bed so there’s enough room. It’s been awhile since he’s done this, but it’s not the sort of thing you forget. Ray’s soft when he starts, a challenge which Gerard meets with resolve.

Ray starts rolling his hips up, a rhythm that he remembers so clearly he doesn’t even have to think about how to follow him without getting choked. Gerard’s just starting to get into it, letting Ray’s taste settle over everything else when Bob’s startled voice takes his attention. “What are you doing?”

Gerard pulls off Ray and and wipes his wettened lips with the back of his arm. He doesn’t know what to say. On one hand, yeah Bob wasn’t around for this part and it’s not the kind of thing you just tell someone. On the other hand it’s pretty much exactly what it looks like, so it’s a stupid question. Worse, it’s a stupid question that gets the other’s attention. Frank comes barreling in from the lounge like he’s about to stop Gerard from injecting H, and Mikey’s curtain slides open. They’re both looking at him, and it’s not like they didn’t know before, but it’s different now.

When Frank says derisively ‘better Ray than Bert’ Gerard unfolds to his feet and pushes past them to the tiny fridge. Water reduces him back to coke mouth and he’s just sick of everything. He’s got seven more pills left, and if he stops taking them to retain his sanity he’ll get an antibiotic-resistant infection that might lead to amputation. He’s supposed to be a rockstar, how can his life suck this much? But he can’t stay in the kitchen forever, if only because the bathroom is on the other side of the bus.

On the way through the bunks Frank stops him and kisses him. It’s a brotherly kiss, light and quick on his cheek. It’s Frank’s way of apologising for a douchy comment.

“Sorry,” says Bob. “I thought-”

Gerard doesn’t want to hear what horror story Bob has, so he says it’s fine.

“It’s not just Ray you know. Who wants to help.” It’s not often Frank sounds awkward, but then Gerard guesses it’s not every day Frank propositions his bandmates.

“Oh yeah?” He’s not entirely sure why he feels so bitter saying it.

“I, we can be distracting with the best of them,” Frank smiles, but it’s hesitant, like Gerard’s a fucking sheep to not be scared off.

He figures there’s two ways things can fold out from here. He can let his inner angry cokehead out, and fuck things up, _again_ , or he can be chill about this and take the sort of gift they’re sort of giving him. And when he lays it out like that, it doesn’t seem like much of a hard decision. He takes a step forward and kisses Frank a second time. This time it’s real, lips open and tongues moving. It’s the first time they’ve kissed like this when not making a point on stage. Even with Mikey and Ray and Bob watching it doesn’t seem like a show.

Of course, the nice feel of it dies a hard death the moment Frank decides to talk. “You taste different. Did you ta-?”

“Fucking no.” Mikey snaps. Gerard doesn’t know what throws him off more, that Frank can taste coke in his mouth, or that Mikey is defending him so hard when everyone knows he’s the one that misses the scene the most.

“Can we move somewhere? All five of us aren’t going to fit on my bed.”

“Really Toro? You only fuck on beds? You’re such a girl.” And before Gerard can even start on the ‘calling someone a girl isn’t an insult’ rant Frank drops to his knees and opens Bob’s zipper and everyone’s distracted.

From the way Frank’s going and the way Bob’s fingers clenched in his hair are white-knuckled already, it’s impossible to believe this is his first time. Yet it’s a story they would have heard, a dozen different people putting a dozen slight twists on it. Nothing is private on tour. Gerard watches it for a minute, hand curved around the bulge in his pants. Then he looks to his right and Ray is still sprawled out on his bunk, wearing just a shirt, dick in hand. The only possible thing to do is kneel at the edge of the bed and lick the head of his cock.

The movement of the bus is more noticeable when he’s on his knees on the floor, but it’s not enough to make him stop. He doesn’t want to stop, Ray’s starting to leak onto his tongue, and he’s forgotten how great sucking cock is, but he’s hard against the tight black jeans he’s wearing. Gerard hastily opens the button and zipper before returning a hand to Ray’s thigh.

The motion he uses on his cock matches the motion his mouth is making, his hips are thrusting forward to meet the curl of his hand and with each thrust his jeans slip down a bit further. It’s not like it matters though, Frank and Bob are busy, and Mikey’s watching them, and Ray can’t even see from the position he’s in. Besides, they’ve all seen each other naked a thousand times over the years.

He jerks forward and almost chokes on Ray -pulls off and coughs hard- when he feels slick fingers running the line of his asscrack. Gerard looks to the side, curious to see which one of them wants him. It takes him a second to process that Frank is still blowing Bob, Bob’s hands clawing in his hair. That means... Gerard arches his back so he can see behind him. Mikey’s there.

Gerard should tell him to stop, that it’s wrong or fucked up or creepy. He wants to want to tell him that. But he doesn’t actually want to say any of it, doesn’t think he can bring himself to call his brother anything negative and mean it. And while he tries not to think about it often, there’s no question that Mikey knows his way around the male form. He untwists and starts sucking Ray again, and Mikey takes that as the answer it is.

Ray’s hips start shoving up into his face. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Ray’s fists ball up the sheets, and Gerard knows this is almost over. Ray’s not really the warning type, but even if he did Gerard wouldn’t pull away. His guess of ending is totally shot apart by Bob’s grunt, Gerard looks up just in time to see Frank wipe his chin and Bob stumble back until he sits heavily on Mikey’s bunk. Gerard starts jerking himself faster, he wants to know how Bob tastes, how stretched Frank’s mouth is, how- Ray groans and shoots into his throat until Gerard pulls his mouth up so the taste covers his tongue.

The flavour of his mouth is almost nostalgic, he’s had this before and he’s never really forgotten how much he loves it. Mikey pressed against his back, lithe and sweaty is new, and it’s all Gerard can do to remain upright when he can feel Mikey’s knuckles moving fast across his ass. He can feel Mikey jerking off, and the only thing Gerard can do is stroke even faster. It’s a race for who’s going to lose it faster, and Gerard loses(wins? It’s not really a losing situation) when Mikey presses his thumb hard against his asshole. He comes on the sagging blanket, on Ray’s shin, on the floor, and _fuck_ , he’s going to have to clean that up later.

He’s still panting hard, forehead resting against Ray’s knee when over the sounds of his breath Mikey lets out a shuddering wail. Gerard shivers as Mikey’s come splatters his back. Before he has a chance to think about it he reaches back and swipes his hand through the mess, then raises it to his mouth. Mikey doesn’t taste much different than Ray, but it’s nice to imagine he does.

The bus is silent for a minute before Frank bursts out “What, hey, nobody’s gonna help me?”

“Big fucking whiner,” Mikey bitches, but he crawls the few feet to Frank. It’s way too early for Gerard to get hard again but seeing Mikey naked, sweaty and crawling is going to be a great memory for later.

By the time Mikey’s done sucking off Frank, Gerard’s swallowed enough that the come has run off and taste in his mouth is back. Which disproves the theory that cocksucking can save the world, which is obvious but still seems a bit disappointing. Still, he’s in a much better mood now, and the guys aren’t watching him from afar, worried he’s about to break down, because they’re all too busy catching their breath or cleaning up, or falling asleep. If this is another side effect, Gerard thinks he can make it through the rest of the pills.


End file.
